


King of Arms

by themummersfolly



Category: Henry V - Shakespeare
Genre: F/M, Friends to Lovers, Genderfluid Character, I have no idea what I'm doing, M/M, Other, Please be nice, Slow Burn, Trans Character, implied afab, team france
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:41:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28355604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themummersfolly/pseuds/themummersfolly
Summary: Montjoy is the chief herald of France, trusted servant of the king. But the quiet man who bears the title carries secrets of his own.
Relationships: Montjoy/Charles I d'Albret
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4
Collections: Histories Ficathon XI





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cheshireArcher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheshireArcher/gifts).



The procession left the chapel of Petit-Saint-Antoine in midafternoon, returning through the streets of Paris the way it had come from the Hôtel de Saint-Pol. Leading the way were the trumpeters, pursuivants, and heralds of the Royal College of Arms; this was, after all, an event concerning one of their own. Next came the knights and lords of the royal household, then the royal officers, the Chamberlain and the Chancellor, the Constable carrying the ancient sword Joyeuse, and finally the king himself. Behind the king, flanked by an honor guard of heralds, rode the central figure of the day’s festivities, wearing a gold-trimmed tabard and a crown modeled after that of the king. This was Montjoy, King of Arms, chief herald, diplomat, and messenger of France, and he had just been crowned that day at noon.

The streets through which the procession wound were packed with onlookers; after all, a royal parade is nearly as entertaining as a good execution. If one were to get close enough, one might have remarked that the new King of Arms seemed rather young for such an important office. He was a slender man, dark-haired and smooth-faced as a youth. In other circumstances, a stranger might think him the most junior of his profession, yet he had already been a herald in the king’s service for over a decade, and before that he had served as a pursuivant to the Duke of Anjou.

The procession stopped before the royal residence long enough for the riders to dismount, before continuing through the great doors into the feasting hall. Tables had been laid there for the celebratory banquet; as the revelers took their seats, each according to rank and station, the king and the members of the royal household proceeded to the high table beneath its canopy, where the king himself seated Montjoy in the place of honor.

As attendants began pouring the wine, Constable d’Albret leaned out from his place to speak to the chief herald.

“Guillaume! How are you holding up?”

“Well, my lord, thank you!” The herald—Guillaume de Reux was his name—had spent the previous night in vigil, preparing to take on his new roll as the voice of the king. He would be exhausted by the end of the night, but for now the excitement had driven away any thought of weariness, and his face was flushed. He was not a high born man, and this day was an honor he had not dared to dream of for most of his life.

The feast, which included a magnificent subtlety in the shape of Mercury’s winged cap and the arms of France, could have rivaled a coronation in its grandeur. This, indeed, was the point; all the day’s pomp and ceremony served to drive home, to onlookers as much as to the guest of honor, the King of Arms’ status as an extension of the king’s own person. It was all the more important given that the position had gone to a soft-spoken young man from what was, at best, minor nobility. Indeed, de Reux had not even been the first candidate for the job. The Constable, who, as the king’s cousin, held considerable influence, had initially pushed for his own candidate; but the dukes of Bourbon and Anjou had spoken highly of de Reux’s discretion and character, and there had been such an outpouring of support from the College of Arms that even d’Albret had ultimately conceded to his appointment.

“A prettier face than many a maid, but he can walk into a tavern of drunken pikemen and tell them to go to hell, if that’s what you bid him.” Louis, Duke of Orleans, had taken a break from the dancing. He swirled the wine in his cup. “And for all you never hear a peep from him most of the time, he can make himself heard over a battle. Or a meeting of the Lords of France.” He grinned, mischief in his eyes. The old Duke of Berry frowned.

“As pretty a face as a maid, and as quiet a life as a monk, it would seem.” He folded his hands over his belly, staring out to where de Reux dutifully danced with the ladies of the court. “There’s something odd about that fellow.”

“Really, my lord?” d’Albret shook his head. “We’ve been discussing his appointment for a month and you decide now to voice a complaint?”

“Oh, I have no complaints about him. He’s simply odd. I can’t but feel he’s hiding something.”

“Well, if he’s managed to keep something from you, uncle, I dare say he can be trusted with the king’s secrets,” laughed Orleans. Berry, always concerned about everyone else’s character, had conducted an extensive investigation into the herald’s past.

“No wife, no mistress, no children.” Berry ignored his nephew’s jab. “There don’t even seem to be any whores he visits. Curious for a man in his position.”

“There are worse things a man can do than avoid brothels.” d’Albret shot a pointed glance at Orleans, who grinned. The two men had been brought up together, and Louis had never once listened to d’Albret’s admonitions. “There are some men, my lords, for whom consummate professionalism is the only consummation they require. If that’s your only complaint against him, then I think we made the right decision.”

“Ah yes, but consider all the work it leaves for the rest of us, cousin. He neglects the ladies, and leaves it up to us to romance them.” Orleans downed his wine and rose. “Madame my aunt! May I have the pleasure of this next dance?” The Duchess of Berry—years younger than her husband’s nephew—accepted his arm, and they swept off to join the throng of dancers. The old Duke settled back in his chair.

“He is a curious fellow, though,” he mused. “Come, d’Albret, you must have some theory about him. What are your thoughts?”

D’Albret—one of the few man in France whose intelligence network rivaled Berry’s—shook his head. “My theory is that after a month of looking for faults, I can’t find a single reason to doubt him. Beyond that, I have more important things to attend to than the private life of a herald. Leave him alone, Berry. He’s loyal to the king; what more can we ask?”

\-------

Decades earlier, in a small town in Normandy, an old herald and his wife welcomed the birth of their only child. Old Guillaume de Reux had always longed for an heir to carry on the family profession, and when his wife was delivered of a baby girl, he rejoiced no less. The child was christened Guillaumine after her father, and from the time she could walk she was schooled in the knowledge and practice of heraldry.

“You see there?” Her father would page through his great manual of arms, pointing out the patterns and devices that adorned the shields of the noblemen. “Three roses gules on a field d’or—that’s the city of Grenoble. And the ermine plain—the lords of Brittany use it. Those who wear it in their arms are often associated with them.”

“We should find her a husband,” the child’s mother would fret. “She cannot play at heraldry forever. We must think about her future.”

“She need not marry unless she wishes to,” her father would protest. “Look, she’s more attentive than any page boy and she knows as much already as a pursuivant. I’m as proud of her as of any son.”

“But who ever heard of a woman herald? Stop feeding her these ideas, you’re doing her no service.”

However much Guillaume might protest, his wife was right. Although technically protected, the life of a herald was dangerous, and the perils of the road or the temper of some lord could bring ruin in a moment. And who in all the world would look at his daughter and understand her to be the equal in mind of any man? No, for all the old man’s dreams, the daughter of Guillaume de Reux could never be her father’s heir. And so, when she was perhaps fourteen years of age, Guillaumine was packed off to a convent with her father’s sister; and when he returned from saying goodbye, Old Guillaume brought with him Young Guillaume, his son brought up in fosterage whom the neighbors had somehow managed to forget. The boy proved to be as studious as his sister, and from that time on he followed his father on every errand, growing in knowledge and ability until he came to the attention of the seneschal of the Duke of Anjou, whose household at that time was in need of another pursuivant.


	2. Chapter 2

The year of Our Lord 1411 had not been easy for France. Tensions between the Duke of Burgundy and the Orleanist allies had risen and waned throughout the year; a treaty signed that summer had promised an end to hostilities, but late in the autumn violence had exploded again and the Duke of Burgundy had stormed Paris with an army 60,000 strong. The other great dukes and many of the royal household had fled for their lives. Those who stayed took pains to appease the victorious duke, or else were turned out in disgrace or imprisoned. Even Constable d’Albret, who had insisted on remaining nonpartisan, had been sacked after a stormy council meeting and replaced by Burgundy’s cousin, Count Waleran of Luxembourg.

The King of Arms had managed to avoid the purge, though not through any political maneuvering. His post may have been high-profile, but his person was not, and the duke paid about as much attention to Montjoy as he did to the average sideboard. The herald stayed on, earnestly carrying out his duties, only now his orders came unequivocally from Burgundy.

The November rain soaked the fields around La Chapelle, turning the roads into rivers of mud that churned under the hooves of Montjoy’s horse. He had ordered his escort of crossbowmen to hang back; he would address the rebel contingent alone. The idea was to avoid all unnecessary signs of aggression. His message was not an amicable one, and he had concluded that his best hope of making it home alive was to amplify his status as a noncombatant. Emotions were running high, and he would not have put it past Armagnac’s Scorchers to forget a herald’s right to safe passage if provoked.

He had hoped to deliver his message indoors and have a chance to wring the rainwater from his hat. But as he drew near the crossroads and the walls of the town, he saw the object of his mission waiting for him: a group of armed men, mounted and on foot, several richly dressed. There were the arms of Charles, Duke of Orleans, still barely more than a child; and beside them, those of his father-in-law the Count of Armagnac, arguably the true leader of the faction. They turned toward him as he approached.  
Montjoy reigned in his horse where a rivulet crossed the road, keeping the water as a barrier between himself and the rebel lords. His voice rang off the town walls as he delivered his message.

“Thus says my lord the king: you have conspired against our royal person and against our loyal and beloved servant the Duke of Burgundy. Throw down your arms, disband your troops, and sue for peace, lest you rouse our anger beyond recall and bring down upon yourselves the destruction you most surely deserve-”

“Cut the crap, herald.” Armagnac cut him off. “We all know Burgundy sent you, not the king. If he wants peace with us, he can prove it by coming out here and kissing my ass.

There were jeers and yells of approval from his men. One of the mounted lords nudged his horse forward a few steps. Montjoy blinked the rain out of his eyes and recognized d’Albret.

“We never broke faith with the king, whatever lies Burgundy has told him,” he called out. “Go back in peace and tell him that we will not yield until we are certain of the safety and the sovereignty of our liege-lord.”

Montjoy’s shoulders slumped ever so slightly. There would be no getting out of the rain before nightfall, it seemed. “I will tell him as you say.”

“And you tell that weasel Burgundy,” Armagnac shouted, “if he’s not out of Paris by Saint Andrew’s Day, I’ll hang him, you, and every last one of his cockroaches I find in there. He wanted a war, now he’s got one. You tell him that from me!”

Behind Armagnac, d’Albret’s jaw tightened visibly; the young Duke of Orleans stared stonily into the distance. The assembled soldiers cheered at their leader’s speech, shouting insults and rattling their weapons at the herald.

“Get out of here, you cuck!”

“Run away back to Burgundy!”

“Go on, before we pull you off that fancy horse and teach you a lesson!”

With as much dignity as he could muster, Montjoy turned his horse and began the ride back to Paris. In the distance, he could see his escort watching from a hill, silhouetted against the gloomy sky. He had gone maybe six steps when something—a rock, hurled by one of the soldiers—struck his horse a glancing blow across the quarters. Terrified, the animal bucked and took off. Montjoy lost his grip and toppled backwards. Even as he struck the mud he felt a jerk at his ankle and realized, to his horror, that his foot was still caught in the stirrup.

\-------

When he came to he was lying still, facedown, with just enough of his face above the mud to breathe. All around him people were jostling and shouting. He recognized Armagnac’s voice, and the voices of several of his own escort.

“Enough! Everyone quiet!” d’Albret’s voice cut across the tumult like a thundercrack. “The man’s hurt! Are we king’s men, or are we going to let his messenger lie there in the mud?”

A set of hooves splattered somewhere nearby, followed by the squelch of someone dismounting. Montjoy felt someone crouch over him.

“Guillaume? Guillaume, can you hear me? Say something if you can hear me.”

He took a breath to speak, inhaled a raindrop, and coughed.

“Good enough.”

Montjoy managed to turn his head and open one eye. The Constable leaned over him— _the ex-Constable_ , he thought dizzily, _a real shame too_ -

“You and you, get over here and give me a hand. Armagnac, keep your men back!” d’Albret lowered his voice. “Alright, Guillaume, we’re going to roll you over and see how bad you’re hurt, then we’re going to figure out how to get you inside.”

Several pairs of hands gripped his doublet and began to turn him. Blinding pain shot through his trapped arm and across his chest. He was dimly aware of crying out, then he knew no more.

\-------

The next he knew—at least, the next coherent thing he knew—he was lying on a pallet with a blanket tucked up to his chin. Rain pelted the shuttered windows; somewhere nearby, a fire crackled. Utensils clinked beside his head. He opened one eye—the other seemed to be swollen shut. A serving woman stood over him, busily mixing something in a cup. As his groggy brain struggled to remember where he was, she stooped over him and pulled back a corner of the blanket to examine his injured shoulder. Air gusted against his skin.

“No!” Panic rose, choking him. He tried to pull the blanket back up, but his shoulder screamed in protest. The woman jerked back.

“Calm yourself, Guillaume!” Another figure loomed over him, and he recognized d’Albret’s voice. Someone took hold of the blanket and drew it back over him. “She’s a mute. She won’t tell anyone.”

Montjoy froze, trembling.

“My lord,” he managed at last. “Where are my clothes?”

D’Albret didn’t answer immediately. A swish of cloth indicated the serving woman had stepped away; the pallet dipped as d’Albret settled beside the injured herald.

“I sent them to be washed,” he said at last. “Don’t be afraid, the mute woman’s the only one who’s tended you. I gave orders that no one else was to take part in your care. Armagnac thinks it’s because of that display of his that caused this mess.”

Montjoy squeezed his eyes shut. Pain and terror rose in his throat, making him gag.

“Here!” d’Albret snatched up a basin from beside the bed, supporting the herald as he retched. At last the heaving subsided, and he lay him back down again.

“Don’t be afraid,” he repeated. “Myself and the mute woman are the only ones who have seen anything. I’m going to keep it that way. You’re safe.” He shifted so he was more in the herald’s field of vision. “I had some wine with poppy brought up. It will help with the pain. Do you think you can keep it down?”

Montjoy nodded hesitantly; the movement tore at the injured muscles of his shoulder. D’Albret lifted his head and held a cup to his lips. The potion warmed his belly; gradually, the pain grew distant and less important, and he was able to breathe more easily.

“What happened?” he slurred at last. Something cool and damp touched his bruised face and he jumped.

“Hush, it’s only a poultice.” D’Albret held the foul-smelling concoction in place. “You got unhorsed and dragged. Your shoulder was out of joint, your knee’s going to give you problems for the rest of your life, and you probably cracked a couple ribs. It’s ugly, but not terrible. You’ll heal. You’re lucky to be in one piece,” he added. “I dispatched a messenger of my own to Burgundy. Hopefully this will be construed as an accident rather than a hostile act. But if the worst happens, I’ll make sure you’re out of harm’s way.”

Montjoy lay still, acutely aware of his vulnerability, of the other man standing watch over him.

“My lord, why?”

“Because if the king’s messenger is delayed, Burgundy will likely assume the worst and attack.”

“No- why this? Why do you do the office of a surgeon?” The medicine was taking effect; Montjoy’s beaten body seemed far away. Somewhere, d’Albret made a sound that might have been a chuckle.

“You’re the king’s man, the same as me. For love of him, either of us would lay down our lives. No matter what Burgundy says, it’s true.” D’Albret’s face swam in and out of focus. The harsh lines of his features seemed to soften. “You’re a damn fool, living like this. I’m amazed you’ve never been discovered.”

“You won’t tell, will you?” In the following days, Montjoy would recall no more of this conversation than the memory of a dream. D’Albret smiled, a rare, warm smile.

“Not for the world, lad. Not for a king’s ransom.”


	3. Chapter 3

As once Fortune’s wheel had cast them down, so again it lifted up the Armagnac allies. Forces loyal to the Duke of Orleans had retaken Paris during the revolt of the Cabochiens and had driven out the Duke of Burgundy. Once more the king sat in counsel with the great dukes, and Charles d’Albret had been restored to his post as Constable.

This change in fortune came not a moment too soon, for a new king had ascended the throne of England, Henry, fifth of his name, and he had set his sights not only on the lands conquered by his forefather Edward, but on France itself. A fragile truce held sway for now; the lords of France used that borrowed time to prepare for the inevitable.

In the rolling country outside Lisieux, though, war and strife seemed a long way away. The June sun shone down on the cavalcade as it passed fields of laborers, busily cutting hay. As the day drew toward noon, a smaller, swifter group of riders appeared, overtaking it a few miles from the crossroads.

“Montjoy the herald!” Constable d’Albret doffed his hat in greeting. “How now? Have you word for us from the king?”

“Not today, my lord.” The herald fell in beside him. “The Marshal of Arms will be taking my place for the next few weeks; I’m taking a leave of absence.”

“Oh? Nothing wrong, I hope?”

“No, it’s just been a while since I’ve been home. I wanted to take the opportunity before, well...” He glanced at the Constable. “I might not get the chance again for a while.”

D’Albret nodded in understanding. The two men rode on in silence; mention of the ongoing troubles had plunged them into contemplation. To Montjoy it seemed, for a moment, that the sun shone less bright on the figure of Charles d’Albret, as if his inner gloom rose up and enveloped him. Then he lifted up his head, and the light caught his features: an aquiline face, dark like his Gascon forebearers, lined with worry and smiles—more of the former than the latter, of late. He turned, eyes bright as daystars, and caught the herald staring.

“Are you alright, Guillaume?”

“Ah.” Montjoy looked away. “Yes, my lord.” He hesitated. “I can cancel my leave, if you need me to. I know things have been uncertain, I might be of some service.”

“No, no. You’re right to take the time while you still can. Visit your kin and attend to your affairs while the sun still shines. It might not do so again for some time.”

Montjoy looked down, studying his horse’s mane.

“I’m going to Caen,” he said at last. “I have a sister there, in the abbey.”

“I didn’t know you had a sister. Is she in holy orders?”

“No—a lay sister.”

D’Albret nodded. “I’m bound for Cabourg, and from there up the coast to Le Havre. My gut tells me if the English invade it’ll be near the mouth of the Seine. I’ve been inspecting the Northern defenses since May. I’ll be in Branville, at the château there. It makes a good base of operations while I’m in the region.”

“I may pass by there on my way back. If you’re still there I can carry your dispatches back with me.”

“There’s no need. But I appreciate it.”

The column of riders had reached the crossroads now, and the two parties began to diverge: the larger headed north, the smaller headed west. D’Albret paused as they came to the junction.

“Well, Guillaume, this is where we part ways.”

“It is.” The herald cast a glance after his companions. “I shall see you in Rouen, then, my lord.”

“Indeed. Until then.” He smiled. “God be with you, good Montjoy.”

“And with you, Lord Constable.”

As he crested a rise in the road, Montjoy stopped and looked back at the column slowly wending into the distance. In its midst, sunlight gilding his armor like a figure of Helios, rode d’Albret. He looked up and saw the herald, and raised his hand in farewell.

\-------

Later, in the old house in Reux, Montjoy opened a chest of his things and took out a bulky package. He had purchased it years before, justifying it with some vague idea of “just in case.” Carefully, he undid the wrappings and shook out the folds of cloth, running his fingers over the fine wool and sheer linen.  
I must be out of my mind, he thought. But if not now, then perhaps nevermore.

\-------

The château at Branville was less a castle and more of a large stone house owned by the lord of the town. He had proved delighted by the honor of hosting the Constable of France, especially since d’Albret had offered to compensate him for the costs up front.

D’Albret rode into the courtyard one afternoon a week or so after his last meeting with the herald. He had spent the last few days gathering information in the coastal towns, and he and his troop were dusty and overheated from the road. The sieur de Branville greeted him warmly as he dismounted.

“Welcome back, my lord! How was your journey?”

“Well enough. No surprises, thank God, outside of that thunderstorm yesterday.”

“Indeed. You must be tired. I’ll have some water drawn for you to wash; there’s just enough time before supper.”

When d’Albret entered the hall, clean and dressed in a fresh set of clothes, he found his knights already chatting and flirting with a group of ladies from Branville’s household. He took his place at the table, largely inclined to ignore them, but as the meal began he noticed with a start the eyes of one lady following him. She looked away when he returned her glance. Her clothing gave an air of modest but respectable means: a dress of good cloth, not particularly rich, and a low hennin with a veil. She was slender and straight-limbed, and her face had the slightly weathered look of someone who spends too much time outdoors. D’Albret beckoned to his host.

“That lady, there. Is she one of your household?”

“Her? No, she arrived the other day. A guest of my wife. Bit of a homely thing, if you ask me.”

D’Albret frowned at the comment. “I think I know her from somewhere. Would you mind introducing us?”

As the servant cleared away the remnants of the meal, Branville spoke to his wife, then returned to his guest with the strange lady in tow.

“Lord Constable, allow me to introduce Guillaumine, demoiselle de Reux.”

The lady curtseyed, and as she met d’Albret’s eye he felt a jolt of recognition. He shook off the surprise and remembered his manners.

“A pleasure to meet you, my lady. Will you join me?”

He offered his arm and she accepted, taking a seat beside him as the evening’s entertainment began. While Branville’s minstrel tuned his lute and began a chanson about Roland and Olivier, d’Albret turned to his companion.

“I believe we’ve met before, my lady. You must forgive my lapse, but I can’t remember where.”

“Never, my lord.” She kept her eyes down, shy. “I would have remembered you.”

“I know a man named de Reux, a herald in the king’s service.”

“Then you know my brother, Guillaume.”

“Indeed. Perhaps that is why you seem so familiar.”

“They say we bear a strong resemblance.”

“That must be it. I thought you were with him, then, in Caen.”

She fretted with her skirt. “We must have missed each other in passing. I had to visit a friend of mine who was ill.”

“I hope your friend is doing better.”

“Yes, my lord, she is.” Guillaumine glanced up. “My brother speaks of you often.”

“Ah, well. I hope it’s not too bad a report.”

“No, my lord. I don’t think any man of good faith could think ill of you.” At this, she blushed and looked away. When the song finished, she rose and took her leave with the rest of the ladies.

The evening wore on and d’Albret eventually took his leave, climbing the stairs to the room set aside for him. In the darkness he put up his sword, crossed to the window and opened the shutters. A cool breeze offered a reprieve from the heat of the hall. Moonlight lay on the fields outside, and the scent of some night-blooming flower drifted up to him.

Something stirred in the corner of the room: a whisper of cloth, a soft footfall. D’Albret started and stepped back, out of the shaft of moonlight, looking for the source of the sound.

“My lord.” A figure emerged from the shadows near the servant’s entrance.

“Guillaumine.” D’Albret relaxed. “What are you doing here?”

“I came in the back,” she started, her voice low and uncertain. “I didn’t want anyone to see. I didn’t want them to talk about you,” she added, as if this was the important part.

“I’m more than accustomed to people talking behind my back.” He stepped toward her, holding out his hands. “But I will guard your reputation with my life. I suspect,” he took her hands in his, “I have been doing so for some time.”

She stiffened, but didn’t pull away. Her hands were slender, cool to the touch, calloused and strong.

“You knew.”

“I guessed.” He spoke gently, as if to a fawn that might leap away at any moment. “You don’t really have a brother, do you? Or a sister?”

Guillaumine—Guillaume—which was the correct name?—looked up at him, eyes wide in a face freckled from the sun. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know how else to come to you.”

Tentatively, d’Albret moved forward until they stood toe to toe, so close his breath stirred the sheer veil over her headpiece. He lifted it off and set it aside. His fingers traced the ribbon that held her hennin in place and undid the knot beneath her chin. The cylindrical cap fell away, revealing not a neatly coiled and pinned mass of braids, but short-cropped black hair, crumpled where it had been pushed back and hidden. He cupped the herald’s face in his palm, staring at one he knew so well, yet scarcely seemed to know at all.

“Who are you?” he breathed.

“One who loves you, my lord.”

Without a thought, d’Albret closed the distance between them in a kiss. Who was it that he drew into his arms—the maid who had come to visit him, or the friend and comrade whose secrets he would carry to the grave? Neither knew. Neither needed to know.

In a few short months’ time, Montjoy the herald would stand before the English king and read out the names of the dead on a muddy battlefield far from here. No one would remark on the tears he shed at the task; no one would know the bitter pang he felt at the sight of one name, at the arms drawn beside it, quarterly gules and France. That pain, and the sweetness of one night not long before, he would bear in private, a secret in a life of secrets, known only to God and to the King of Arms.


End file.
